Series  of  First  Volumes:  Number  One 


OPEN  SHUTTERS 


OPEN 
SHUTTERS 

cA  Volume 
of  Poems  by 

OLIVER  JENKINS 


' 


CHICAGO 

WILL  RANSOM 

191* 


ACKNOWLEDGEMENT 

Many  of  the  poems  included  in  this  volume 
have  appeared  in  The  Open  Road,  The  Lyric,  S4N, 
The  Pagan,  Voices,  The  Lyric  We3,  New  Numbers, 
Tempo,  American  Poetry,  and  the  Boston  Transcript. 

Also,  two  of  the  poems  are  included  in  Wil- 
liam Stanley  Braithwaite's  Anthology  of  Massachusetts 
Poets. 


Copyright,  1922 

h 

Will  Ransom 


To 

GEORGE  EDWARD  WOODBERRY 
Poet  and  friend 


AWAKENING 

This  wind, 

cold  and  purple-edged, 
cuts  little  holes  in  my  soul, 
boles 


criss-crossing 
in  blood-red  lines. 

Before  this,  it  was  different, 
this  wind — 

before  this  it  was  sensuous, 
gentle,  caressing,  soothing     .     .     . 

Before  this,  you  were  here  too! 


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BUDDHA 

Before  a  golden  shrine, 

Massive  with  light, 

Glittering, 

Dazzling, 

There  stood  one  day  a  priest 

Of  Old  Cajinga 

And  many  people, 

Bowing,  beseeching, 

Salaaming,  whimpering, 

Mottled  orange,  violet,  red,  green, 

All  mingling  in  homage. 

So  gorgeous,  entrancing, 
So  ancient,  alluring 

And  tbt  Buddha  frvums. 

Incense  rises  perfumed, 

Wreathing  in  ringlets. 

Purple, 

Curling, 

Pungent  with  sandalwood. 

Music  floats  in  the  air, 

Soothingly  Oriental. 


So  mystic,  enchanting, 
So  bizarre,  amazing 

And  the  Buddha  frowns. 


The  priest  kneels 

In  supplication  speaking, 

Rumbling, 

Groveling, 

Hollow  words  sans  meaning 

To  the  green  god, 

Majestically  impressive 

And  carven  of  jade. 

So  secret,  astounding, 
So  solemn,  imposing 

And  Hill  the  Buddha  /hums. 


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SPRING  FEAR 

Dear  Heart,  when  spring  comes  back 

each  year,  it  seems 

Once  more  to  kindle  hope  and  joy  anew 
And  once  again  I  live  my  youthful  dreams, 
Giving  my  unabated  love  to  you. 

The  softened  music  of  an  April  rain 
Playing  hushed  nocturnes 

through  the  apple  trees, 
Deep-purple  violets  fringing  the  lane — 
Oh,  we  have  grown  old  along  with  these. 

And  yet,  somehow  I  have  a  dread  of  springs 
That  grows  more  poignant 

with  the  passing  years; 

Once  I  was  filled  with  joy  for  new-born  things, 
Now  I  sit  quietly,  hiding  my  tears ! 


LOVE  AUTUMNAL 

My  love  will  come  in  autumn-time 
When  leaves  go  spinning  to  the  ground 
And  wistful  stars  in  heaven  chime 
With  the  leaves'  sound. 

Then,  we  shall  walk  through  dusty  lanes 
And  pass  beneath  low-hanging  boughs 
And  there  while  soft-hued  beauty  reigns 
We  '11  make  our  vows. 

Let  others  seek  in  spring  for  sighs 
When  love  flames  forth  from  every  seed; 
But  love  that  blooms  when  nature  dies 
Is  love  indeed! 


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REGRET 

Slowly,  I  climbed  the  narrow,  winding  lane, 
A  lane  of  magic,  as  it  was  that  night 
In  May  when  you  and  I, 

our  hands  clasped  tight, 
Went  up  together;  and  I  felt  again 
The  dew-cooled  grassy  slopes, 

and  heard  your  voice: 
"Live!  live!"  you  cried, " love  is  the  best, 

not  power, 
Or  fame,  or  worldly  things. 

Love  blooms  a  flower 
For  golden  Youth  to  pick. 

T is  yours!   Rejoice!" 

Ah !  if  I  had  not  turned  and  answered,  "  No," 
My  life  would  not  have  been 

mere  emptiness     .    •    . 
Below,  the  town  lay  wrapped 

in  peacefulness, 
The  stars,  the  fields  - 

they  had  not  answered  so — 
They  still  remained  the  same 

as  when  you  said, 

"Rejoice! "and  I  said, "No"    .    .    . 
and  now  you  're  dead. 


INGRATITUDE 

It  seems  so  queer — so  wrongly  queer 
To  walk  along  this  moon-flecked  way 
And  find  the  flowers  in  blossom  here — 
How  can  they  stay? 

Not  one  lone  birch  tree  bows  its  head 
And  silver  poplars  have  grown  higher 
Since  when  she  walked  with  silent  tread 
And  eyes  afire. 

This  was  her  road — she  loved  it  so! 
Each  flower  kissed  her  fairy  hands; 
And  now  she's  gone — can't  something  show 
It  understands? 


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/IPK/L  TRYST 

^ 

I  will  return,  when  April  sings  again 

In  wavering  half-tones  to  the  sleeping  hills, 

And  silver  clouds  have  left  warm  drops  of  rain 

Lingering  in  cups  of  moon-drenched  daffodils. 

I  will  return,  when  soft-eyed  Spring  returns, 

And  all  the  world  is  rustling  with  her  wing, ' 

When  cooling  winds  bend  modest  green-dad  ferns 
And  kiss  dead  grasses  from  their  slumbering. 

I  will  return,  for  how  can  I  forget 

That  night  of  love,  born  in  the  swooning  blue 
Of  April?     I  have  not  forgotten  yet 

And  some  such  night  I  will  return — will  you? 


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HOME-COMING 

Now  chat  you  are  coming  home 
Will  the  syringas  kneel 
White  and  reverent? 

Under  a  dazed  moon 

you  have  caressed  them ; 
In  the  chill  rain 

you  have  given  your  kisses, 
Night  after  night, 
Coming  down  the  long  path, 
Loving  and  fearless, 

you  have  opened  your  heart. 

Now  that  you  are  coming  home 
Will  they  kneel 
White  and  reverent? 


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ON  AND  ON 

On  and  on 
Through  the  arches 
Of  the  mist-wrapt  bridge 
The  angry  waters 
Swirl  unceasingly. 

Faint  sprites 
Of  sundust 
Sprinkle  the  air 
With  perfumed  hopes. 

Dreaming  of  youth 
And  adolescence 
Pale-hued  Venus 
Comes  into  the  west 
Hesitating  and  blushing 
As  though  to  hide 
From  the  sun's  last  rays. 

And  still  the  waters  flow 
Sometimes  calmly 
Sometimes  frothing 
But  always 
On  and  on. 


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TINSEL 

I  used  to  think  the  world  to  be 
A  tinsel  ball  of  revelry. 

A  place  of  joy  and  happiness 

Where  one  might  laugh  with  carelessness. 

A  world  that  flung  its  night  away 
And  tolerated  only  day. 

Within  whose  arms  the  harshest  voice 
Was  soft  and  sweet  as  though  by  choice. 


I  quite  forgot  a  tinsel  ball 

Is  crushed  as  if  't  were  not  at  all ! 


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EYES 

i 

Deep  violets 
with  a  hint  of  poppies 
flaming  through  a  mist 
of  moon-spun  willows 
dripping  wet  pearls 
from  silver  leaves. 

ii 

Brown  tassels  of  com 
weeping  after  rain 
fearful  to  raise  their  plumes 
lest  the  passionate  sun 
leave  them  dry  and  withered. 

iii 

The  gods  of  Olympus 

holding  solemn  court 

in  a  blue  pavilion 

with  openings 

where  the  glint  of  steel 

strikes  through  occasionally. 


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SPARKS 

Always  upward 
The  glowing  logs 
Crackling  and  sputtering 
Throw  their  fiery  cinders 
To  the  great  blue  happiness 
Of  nature. 

Twisted  chairs  and  sagging  lounges 

Heavy  with  glittering  costliness 

Stretch  themselves 

Like  lazy  tigers 

In  pure  contentment. 

And  all  these  things 
Within  the  room 
Look  on  and  wonder 
As  each  new  spark 
Flies  on  its  way. 

Yet  there  is  no  sound 
Nor  stir  of  stagnant  hope 
From  chair  or  lounge 
To  do  the  same. 

For  they  like  men 
Can  look  and  look 
And  yet  they  do  not  see. 


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BURLEY  WOODS 

Dreamily — 

Sleeping  woods  and  a  cool  wind  blowing, 
A  flowery  slope  where  life  is  glowing     . 

Faster,  with  a  swing — 

Green  willows  bend 
And  intertwine 
Above  a  winding  lane, 
Where  fragrant  scents 
Of  fir  and  pine 
Come  like  celestial  rain. 

Pale  diamond  spears 

Of  sunlight  thrust 

Their  way  through  every  space; 

Tall  grasses  wave 

And  brush  the  dust 

With  slow  majestic  grace. 


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And  overhead 

An  oriole 

Alights  and  starts  to  sing, 

As  shadows  dance 

And  soft  clouds  roll 

And  leaves  keep  whispering. 

Softly,  almost  a  whisper 

A  shady  path, 
Far-reaching  trees     .     .     . 

Where  else  is  beauty 
Such  as  these? 


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THE  OLD  CATHEDRAL 

Solemnly, 
Sadly     .     .     . 
The  Old  Cathedral 
Chants  a  midnight  warning 
Through  its  dinging  robe 
Of  spectral  fog. 

Wavering  lights 
In  the  street  below 
Shimmer  with  frenzy 
Like  gems  on  the  inky  cloak 
Of  an  ugly  demon. 

A  door  of  glass 

Tinkles 

As  if  in  mockery 

To  the  raucous  bark 

Of  an  angry  dog. 


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Coasting 

On  the  sleeping  air 
Comes  the  shrieking  tone 
Of  a  policeman's  whistle 
Interrupting  a  waterfall 
Of  incensed  voices. 

And  all  is  silent 

Once  more 

While  the  Old  Cathedral 

Chants  to  the  hovering  fog 

Solemnly, 

Sadly     .     .     . 


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RUPERT  BROOKE 

In  Observance  of  His  Birth, 
August  3, 1887. 

Sometimes  I  feel  his  presence  at  my  side 
To  view  this  life  that  once  he  found  so  fair, 
While  through  the  still  and  fragrant  summer  air 
Sweet  chords  of  music  drift  and  fireflies  ride. 

And  then,  perhaps,  he  speaks  of  things  held  dear, 
Of  rainbows,  flowers,  and  footprints  in  the  dew ; 
Such  things  which  all  the  world  should  love,  he  knew. 
And  tells  to  me — and  I  —  I  love  to  hear. 

August  3,  1920 


AN  OLD  COLONIAL  HOUSE 

Standing  in  ironical  silence, 
White,  green-shuttered  and  haughty. 
It  remembers  the  fading  past 
And  shudders  at  the  comparison. 


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TRANSPLANT 

From  Washington  and  Winnipeg, 

from  cities  east  and  west, 
Great  'planes  go  flashing  through  the  blue 

on  high  and  distant  quest; 
Deep  amber-hued  and  flaming  red, 

with  eyes  in  front  and  rear, 
The  mammoth,  swarming  transplanes 

speed  round  the  hemisphere. 

Far  above  the  murky  clouds 

that  warn  of  storm  below, 
They  waver  not  a  second, 

but  fast  and  faster  go; 
They  drone  high  over  field  and  farm, 

across  the  southern  skies, 
And  roar  above  the  ranges 

where  snow  like  silver  lies. 

Piercing  through  a  bluish  haze 

along  a  lonesome  trail 
With  a  whizzing,  dream-like  plunging 

they  nose-dive  down  a  vale. 
Then  out  across  a  river, 

near  by  a  city's  towers 
Where  pale-green  parks  and  crimson  roofs 

seem  bits  of  summer  flowers. 


Coasting  back  from  northern  lands, 

ice<apped  and  dazzling  white, 
The  broad-winged,  whirring  transplants 

go  flashing  on  their  flight, 
Over  seas  and  prairies 

throughout  the  world  in  quest 
From  Washington  and  Winnipeg, 

from  cities  east  and  west. 


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POPPY-TIME  IN  THE  ARCTIC 

The  cliffs  of  ice  are  singing 

as  the  wind  sweeps  softly  by, 
The  air  is  filled  with  music 

of  the  people  of  the  sky 
And  barren  lands  are  laughing 

with  a  smile  of  purest  gold 
For  it's  poppy-time  in  the  Arctic 

and  the  world  has  just  been  told. 

The  long  cold  night  is  over 

and  the  day  has  come  again 
To  cheer  the  hearts  of  northern  men 

with  comfort  after  pain ; 
And  what  if  one  has  suffered 

at  the  strength  of  the  wintry  blast  ? 
There 's  an  end  to  gloom  in  the  Northland 

and  the  end  is  here  at  last. 

Just  cups  of  yellow  sunshine — 

but  they  mean  so  much  to  me 
Way  up  here  in  the  Northland 

where  a  man  is  really  free. 
For  one  may  see  the  dawning 

with  God  at  every  hour 
Of  the  only  peace  that  is  truthful — 

and  it  lies  within  a  flower! 


SONG 

Let  me  be  great,  as  stars  are  great, 
Singing  of  love,  not  of  hate. 

Love  for  sweet  and  simple  things 
Like  clouds  and  sea-shell  whisperings, 

Cool  autumn  winds,  pale  dew-kissed  flowers, 
Thin  coils  of  smoke  and  granite  towers, 

Snow-capped  mountain  peaks  that  flash 
High  above  the  river's  crash, 

Shrill  songs  of  birds  and  children's  laughter, 
Soft-grey  shadows  trailing  after 

Sunbeam  sprites  that  seek  the  woods 
And  lose  themselves  in  solitudes. 

All  these  I  '11  love,  never  hate, 
And  loving  them,  I  will  be  great ! 


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ROMANCE  ORIENT  ALE 
A  Song  of  Morocco 

Belle  nuit,  nun  d  '* 
Speed  on,  0  Moktar  Bey! 

The  moon  gleams  white  on  the  crumbling  wall, 
The  silk-stones  ring  as  the  sharp  hoofs  rail, 
Ta'  ala !  ta'  ala !  why  do  you  crawl 
O  Moktar  Bey! 

Alcazar  lies  in  purple  sleep, 
The  mosques  rise  high  from  the  grotesque  heap, 
Ta'  ala!  ta'  ala!  why  must  you  creep 
O  Moktar  Bey! 

For  in  a  court  of  a  thousand  flowers, 

A  lady  waits  my  coming, 
Her  red  lips  meet  like  twin  rose  bowers, 

And  softly  she  is  humming: 

0  belle  nuit,  nuit  d' am**r, 
0  belle  nuit,  nuit  d  '< 


Mohammed  lives!  the  minarets 
Are  painted  black  in  silhouettes, 
Faster!  dear  comrade,  ere  the  moon  sets 
O  Moktar  Bey! 


Of  course,  it  hurts — the  long,  long  ride 
With  sorocco  winds  burning  your  side; 
But,  comrade,  ta'  ala !  we  have  not  died 
O  Moktar  Bey! 

There  lies  the  court  of  a  thousand  flowers, 

See !  she  waits  my  coming, 
Her  red  lips  meet  like  twin  rose  bowers, 

And  softly  she  is  humming : 

0  belle  nuit,  nuit  dl  amour, 
0  belle  nuit,  nuit  d'  amour 

Praise  Allah!  O  Moktar  Bey! 


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CONK£N770N 

When  I  catch  a  glimpse  of  you, 
An  irritating  glimpse  of  you 
Turning  some  distant  corner, 
My  body  gives  a  sudden  twinge 
And  I  want  to  run 
Shouting  your  name. 

But  my  companions 

Continue  their  empty  discussion 

Of  indemnities 

And  foreign  trade 

In  the  same  calm,  monotonous  fashion 

As  before; 

And  I  remain  listening. 


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CYNICISM 

Day  by  day, 

I  have  watched  them  from  a  window, 

Building  a  mansion  towards  the  sky, 

Strong  beams  and  granite  blocks, 

Windows,  doors,  shingles,  blinds, 

I  have  seen  them  assembled  piece  by  piece, 

And  now  it  is  finished; 

Nothing  can  conquer  it,  they  say, 

Neither  wind  nor  fire — 

It  is  the  best  that  money  can  buy. 

And  yet  I  must  smile. 

For  in  my  heart 

A  strong  house  has  crumbled  to  ashes. 


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THEME  FOR  STRINGS 

I  have  found  a  paradise 

In  a  for  place 
Where  the  wild-rose  dances 

With  wind-blown  grace. 

High  upon  a  sleepy  hill 
Watching  the  sea 

With  the  cool  grass  singing 
A  song  for  me. 

Yet,  it 's  such  a  lonely  place 
To  dream  in  long; 

There 's  so  much  beauty 
And  so  much  song! 


INTERLUDE 

The  fragrance  of  violets  is  on  my  lips. 
I  have  flung  aside  the  tapestry  of  passion. 

Outside, 

The  heat  hangs  sullenly  over  the  streets 
Like  a  huge  monster  tantalizing  its  prey 
Before  striking. 

Gruff  voices  and  shrill 
Clash  in  the  air, 
Rising  from  the  dust  and  sweat 
Of  their  birthplace. 

Violets  in  scum?  I  wonder. 


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PORTRAIT 

She  comes  to  this  bridge  on  misty  nights  in  May 
And  watches  the  river  go  rushing  to  the  sea, 
Sounding  like  some  bass  instrument, 
Grumbling  a  song  of  discontent 
Instead  of  ecstacy. 

And  through  the  long,  damp,  desolate  hours, 

While  stars  glow  dully  like  summer  flowers 

Glimpsed  through  a  dusty  window-glass, 

She  walks  with  carefully-measured  tread 

And  low-bowed  head, 

Within  a  cool  arcade, 

Solemn  and  staid 

Of  sea-sprayed  jade, 

Pausing  a  while 

With  a  wistful  smile 

As  a  church-bell  chimes 

From  a  dome  of  light 

Marking  the  town. 

Hidden  from  sight 

In  the  dark,  gloomy  mass 

Of  the  fog-gray  night. 


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The  scent  of  wet  lilacs  sweetens  the  air, 
The  chirping  of  crickets  is  everywhere. 
It  seems  almost  that  the  night  has  a  voice, 
A  faint,  ghostly  voice  that  is  calling : 
"  Rejoice ! 

Dance  and  sing! 

The  trees  are  green 

And  whispering 

With  mad  desire 

And  youthful  fire 

In  honor  of  reigning  spring!" 


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TO  AN  EAST  SIDE  KID 

Dazzle 'em,  kid!  Dazzle 'em! 
• 

Do  n't  go 
Like  the  rest 
To  the  scrap-heap. 
You've  got  charm,  little  girl ; 
You  're  long  on  looks ; 
They  belong  to  you  — 
They're  yours! 

They  're  your  gift, 
They  're  your  pride, 

1T^  **-*  m  ^ 

Dctter 

And  more  valuable  than  wealth. 

Get  out  in  the  world;  you  can't  bun  it. 
Ease  out  of  the  slime, 

the  dirt, 

the  filth, 
And  play! 

Smile,  little  girl! 
Dance,  little  girl ! 
Sing! 

Lauifll 
Live! 

Dazzle  'em,  kid !  Dazzle 'em! 


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50  IT  GOES 

Continually  boasting 

Of  her  distinguished  ancestors, 

And  walking  as  haughtily  as  a  goddess 

On  the  downtown  streets 

She  made  one  feel 

Like  a  pebble 

Next  to  a  marble  pillar. 

But  three  nights  ago     .     .     . 

In  her  father's  Italian  garden     .     .     . 

Her  barriers  were  completely  shattered ; 

And  strange  to  say 

Her  kisses  were  no  different  from  a  shop  girl's. 


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NIGHT  SCENE 

There's  t  sort  of  trembling  quiet 
In  a  long,  white  road 
Under  the  moon. 

An  avenue  of  whispers 

Where  trees,  standing  gaunt  and  solemn. 

Dangle  their  leaves  like  fingers 

At  a  passing  breath  of  air. 

It  is  a  place  of  lovers'  dreams, 
Of  hallowed  memories  on  silver  fleet 
Tinkling  through  the  cool  light  of  the  moon 
Like  the  sound  of  a  crystal  waterfall 

Only  a  drunken  god 
Can  walk  boisterously 
On  such  a  road 
In  the  dead  of  night. 


IN  SALEM  TOWN 

Quaint  gabled  houses  squat  and  frown 
Along  the  streets  in  Salem  Town, 
And  meeting  elm-trees  sway  and  nod 
In  memory  of  those  who  trod 
The  winding  streets  in  days  gone  by 
When  gay  romance  lured  men  to  die. 

What  must  they  think  this  modern  day 
When  things  rush  madly  on  their  way 
Along  the  streets  in  Salem  Town 
Where  gabled  houses  squat  and  frown? 


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TO  /!  DEBUTANTE 

Why  should  I  adore  you  — 
You  have  never  cried 
For  outdoor  beauty — 
You  have  lived  inside. 

Lived  in  stuffy  parlors 
With  gossips  and  tern, 
Flaunting  rich  laces 
And  silk  hosiery. 

Tell  me,  is  there  beauty 
In  a  smoke-filled  hall, 
In  painted  faces 
With  an  empty  drawl? 

God !  will  you  never 

Love  the  south  wind's  croon 

Or  run  out  naked 

To  dance  with  the  moon? 


41 


PASSIONALE 

Dance  for  me,  O  moon-maiden ! 

Writhe  your  body  like  a  serpent! 
On  the  cool  sands 
Keep  time  with  the  waves 

Dance  for  me! 

You  are  a  sword-flash 

in  the  star-light, 
A  white  moth  beating  its  wings 

against  the  sky     . 
Toss  your  head! 
Quiver  with  passion ! 
I  am  your  lover,  your  betrothed, 
I  am  your  master,  your  lord, 
Dance! 
Dance  for  me! 


9pm 

Shutters 
42 


SNOV 

Through  the  cold  night, 
The  wind  howls 

and  the  snow  falls 
incessantly. 

Tears  of  death 
Making  the  trees  silver, 
The  streets  ghastly, 
And  the  buildings 

like  corpses 

under  white 


In  the  houses 

the  ruler  is  sleep, 
In  the  streets 

only  the  arc-lights  are  wakeful. 
Both  inside  and  outside 

there  is  no  sound 

save  of  the  wind 

gnawing  and  tearing 

on  its  way. 


Whoo!  whoo!  it  shrieks 
And  little  children,  wide-eyed, 

draw  up  soft  blankets 

and  shiver. 

While  ever  the  storm  roars 
Louder — fiercer 

and  the  snow  falls 
incessantly. 


Open 

Sbutttn 

43 


Of* 

Shutters 
44 


ETCHING 

Her  eyes  were  like  cold  rapiers 

Gashing 

In  flames  of  bluish  green 

Which  made  the  conscience 

Stand  still,  as  in  a  great  cathedral, 

And  ask:  How  have  I  sinned,  O  Lord? 


Shutter, 
4) 


IGNORANCE 

Along  the  street  the  people  pass 

And  see  the  world  as  a  looking-glass 

Reflecting  themselves  as  they  go  by 

Tilting  their  heads  to  the  sun-washed  sky, 

Proudly  snug  in  their  gilded  spheres, 

They  stalk  like  monarchs  throughout  the  years. 

But  oh,  how  little  those  people  seem 

When  viewed  at  night  by  the  pale  stars'  gleam, 

Just  petty  frail  parts  of  a  cosmic  thing, 

They  live  and  die  ere  blossoming, 

Never  to  know  that  greatness  sings 

Not  in  heads,  but  in  hearts  of  things. 


Open 

Shutters 

46 


THE  WORLD 

There  was  laughter,  and  song,  and  rejoicing, 
The  night  of  the  Mardi  Gras, 
And  the  air  was  quivering  with  music 
And  the  white  Carmelia. 

Now  the  laughter  and  song  are  forgotten, 
The  flowers  have  withered  away; 
For  the  world  is  ever  a  cynic 
And  joy  is  but  for  a  day. 


Sbuaen 
47 


WARNING 

Oh,  I  have  kept  a  room  for  you 
Wherein  my  love  waits  young  and  free, 
And  through  the  open  door  looks  out 
On  those  who  pass  by  yearningly. 

And  you  may  enter  when  you  will 
And  do  as  you  most  like  to  do     .     . 
But  don't  forget  to  close  the  door 
Or  someone  else  may  enter,  too! 


SONNET 

Perhaps,  when  I  have  tired  of  loving  you, 

Have  lost  desire  to  kiss  your  curving  lips 
Or  smooth  your  tresses  with  my  finger-tips, 

And  have  decided  once  more  to  renew 

The  old  familiar  life  among  the  hills 

That  hump  their  backs  against  the  granite  sky, 
And  am  alone  with  the  old  north  wind's  cry 

And  the  weird,  hollow  sound  of  far-off  rills  - 

Then  I  shall  wish  that  I  had  loved  you  more 

And  shared  with  you  my  joys, 

my  hopes,  and  fears, 

And  all  the  beauty  that  I  scorned  before 
Will  come  and  haunt  me  through  the  barren  years. 

And  loving  you  too  late,  I  '11  keep  on  sighing, 

Dreaming  a  thousand  deaths,  but  never  dying. 


SERENATA 

Across  the  sands,  I  heard  the  blue  waves  singing, 

Singing  a  song  of  ecstacy, 
And  while  I  walked,  the  monotone  was  bringing 

Its  beauty  to  the  soul  of  me. 

And  though  my  songs  are  sung  with  mortal  vision, 
And  each  is  but  a  passing  thing — 

If  sometime  I  should  sing  with  sea-born  passion, 
The  waves  might  try  remembering ! 


Open 

Sbutten 

49 


This  is  the  first  book  issued  from  the  Private 
Press  of  Will  Ransom  at  14  West  Washington  Street, 
Chicago,  U.  S.  A.  2V  copies  on  Whatman  hand- 
made  paper  have  been  printed  from  type  on  a  band 
press,  and  the  type  distributed.  Design,  lettering, 
composition,  and  presswork  by  Will  Ransom,  with 
the  assistance  of  Edmond  A.  Hunt.  Binding  by 
A.  J.  Cox  &  Company.  Presswork  fiinisbed  Febru- 
ary 27,  1922.  This  copy  is  Number  ~^J 


1 


